


Perchance to Sleep

by Tassos



Category: MASH
Genre: Gen, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tassos/pseuds/Tassos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mirror, mirror on the wall, how will I survive this fall?<br/>When I see myself no more, how will I ever find the door?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perchance to Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> for Tali

“I’m sleeping till Christmas.”

BJ didn’t even bother opening his eyes as he listened to Hawkeye groan into his pillow. He’d lost track somewhere between twenty-four hours and forty-eight what day it was. He thought it was Tuesday for some reason. It felt like a Tuesday – already too far into the week and too far from the weekend, which when he thought about it didn’t really make a difference since the war didn’t bother with regular hours. Somewhere around thinking it would sure as hell be nice if it did because then he could remember what day it was without higher level math, BJ fell asleep.

* * *

BJ didn’t actually remember Hawkeye saying he was sleeping till Christmas. He’d been dead on his feet and keeling over himself at the time. He woke up sometime later, hungry and ready to rejoin the world, or at least face it.

“What day is it?” he asked at large, lolling over onto his back. He shivered as a gust of air wiggled under his blanket by his toes. There was no response from either of the other corners of the tent, although it sounded like Charles was already up and out the door. “Hawk?”

“I’m asleep.”

“What day is it?”

“If it’s not Christmas, I don’t care.”

“You hungry?”

“I’m asleep.”

BJ decided that he wasn’t that hungry yet and rolled back over into dreams.

* * *

When he woke up for real, it was Tuesday. BJ felt like he’d missed a week but that was just an illusion since it had really been Saturday when he’d fallen into bed.

“You getting breakfast?” Hawkeye mumbled, half asleep still, as BJ pulled some fresh clothes on.

“For values of breakfast,” BJ replied. He tried not to think about it; the food only got worse with anticipation, but he had to eat or else start chewing on his shoes that, while they might taste better, were not nutritionally sound.

“Bring me back some French toast. Eggs over easy. Coffee, and if they have strawberries . . .”

“Whipped cream?”

“I don’t want anything that’s been beaten into submission. Maple syrup. But only if it’s from Vermont.”

BJ nodded and finally cracked a smile. “I’ll tap the tree myself.”

Hawkeye sighed and lay back on his cot, eyes closed. He looked as tired as he undoubtedly felt, worn around the edges, creased and bruised. The last deluge hadn’t been kind to any of them.

* * *

The mess tent was warm after the chill wind of Korea’s late fall. BJ felt his shoulders relax away from his ears a bit as he walked to the line. Heat wafted from unidentifiable mush and something that was probably supposed to be sausage, so grabbed one tray for now, asked for a little bit of everything and forced a smile for Igor who looked like the poster child for sleeping standing up.

Colonel Potter and Father Mulcahy occupied one end of a table with empty trays and full coffee cups. “You’re up,” said the Colonel by way of greeting as BJ slid into the seat across from Father. “Pierce alive?”

BJ nodded and poked at the mush. It was too thick to be porridge. “He’s sleeping till Christmas,” he said.

The Colonel sighed philosophically. “As long as he gets up for his rounds in Post-OP,” he said easily. “Lord knows the last few days have been hell.”

“Did you see how Brighton was doing?” asked BJ, guessing that the Colonel had already made his rounds.

“The kid with the belly wound? He wasn’t awake yet, I don’t think. You should probably check with the nurses.”

“He came in with a buddy of his,” said BJ. The two of them side-by-side in triage, Kerry talking Brighton through the pain he hadn’t had the mercy of passing out from. “Hawk’s leg wound.” Kerry hadn’t made it.

“That’s too bad,” said the Colonel, shaking his head. It sounded like a platitude, God knew he’d seen enough young men die in war after war, but BJ knew the sentiment was always heartfelt.

“Poor boy,” said Father softly, speaking of Brighton. “I’ll be sure to stop by once he’s awake.”

“Thanks, Father,” said BJ. He wasn’t sure if it would help, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt. He’d operated on Brighton, the kid asking after Kerry from when they were separated to when he went under. He was young, had to be eighteen, scared and worried about his friend because it was the only way to not worry about himself.

* * *

“They were out of maple syrup so I brought you a surprise.” BJ cleared a space for the tray and set it down.

“Wonderful,” said Hawkeye, dry as the toast BJ brought him, but he sat up and picked up the fork anyway. BJ went to his own bunk and puttered about, throwing clothes in a pile for laundry, setting aside empty martini glasses that needed to be washed. He tried not to think of the blank stare on Hale Brighton’s face when he found out his friend was dead. Lights out, goodbye.

“Everything all right?” asked Hawk.

“Yeah.” BJ rooted around for his towel. It was under his cot and the shower wasn’t worth using it.

_“Where’s Saul? He’s okay, right? The nurses haven’t stopped long enough to tell me anything. Is he in another room?”_

“Just tired.” He could feel Hawkeye’s eyes on him, hear the absence of sniffing that meant he hadn’t started eating.

“Every time I think the mess tent can’t go to a new low,” he finally said. “Somehow they manage it.”

_“. . . no . . .”_

BJ couldn’t remember what the mush had tasted like beyond bland. It really hadn’t been any worse than usual, but maybe he was just getting used to it. He was getting used to a lot of things that he shouldn’t be these days.

_“. . . no, no, no . . .”_

Like the look on Brighton’s face . . . he’d seen it before. Knew what it meant. Could almost imagine how it felt to be so lost that nothing would bring you back from it. Sometimes –

“Is this sausage or a Frisbee?” Hawkeye’s voice broke his thoughts up, scattering them like splintered glass. “We could stockpile these and patch the roof with them. We’d have sausage shingles.”

The smile was easier as BJ gave up on cleaning and settled on lounging back in his chair, the leaden weight of exhaustion shivering through him.

“All we’d need are Hansel and Gretel,” he said.

“Instead of a fattening up from sugar they get cholesterol. Good thing they have the witch there to eat them first.”

_“. . . no, no, no . . .”_

If only the greatest danger were a witch in the woods, thought BJ as Hawkeye finally lifted an experimental bite on his fork. It passed inspection enough to eat, but Hawkeye made a face anyway.

“You know that kid with the leg wound that didn’t make it?” said BJ after a minute.

Hawkeye paused and looked up at him. “Yeah.”

“I just told his buddy.”

“I’m sorry.”

His words were soft and his eyes kind, steady as they crossed the distance between them. BJ wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for him having to go through that or for not saving the kid.

* * *

Peg’s photo was crinkled around the edges from wear. BJ tried not to think about why he was fingering it now, staring at his wife’s beautiful smiling face, but he couldn’t keep from his mind Brighton’s blank stare that followed the whispered prayer of denial.

He’s seen grief before, soldiers who lost friends like Brighton had, sharp and bitter and angry, but also resigned because on the front, death was a constant companion. It wasn’t the first death they’d seen, just one that hit close to home. Brighton was just gone, his chant had trailed off into a nothingness where no one could follow. Broken in a way that BJ couldn’t fix. More than that, it terrified him because he could almost imagine that fall, when the tenuous grip he had on life and sanity in this hell slipped.

“Sir?” The bang clatter of the door slamming shut sent a jolt through him like a gunshot.

Across the tent, Hawkeye rumbled, “I’m not awake, Radar.”

“Sir?” Radar stopped just inside the door, his voice puzzled now instead in inquiring as he looked from Hawk to BJ a little lost.

“Go away, Radar.”

BJ only had a small smile for him and a shrug to offer in return. “What’s up, Radar?” he asked.

“It’s Tuesday. Hawkeye said he’d help with the Thanksgiving dinners for the Koreans today,” said Radar.

“I’m asleep,” said Hawk, pulling his blanket up higher and smacking his lips to show his contentment right where he was. “You should try it sometime.”

“I did,” said Radar straight faced.

“Oh, how did that work out for you?”

“Not so good. Come on, you said you’d help.”

“Not today,” Hawkeye shook his head. It was a little strange actually how he casually pulled his pillow over his head to block out the world and Radar’s voice. It wasn’t often that Hawkeye refused Radar anything. “Go bother BJ.”

“Sir?” Radar turned hopeful eyes on him, but the thought of putting together meals for starving civilians wasn’t one he could face right now.

“I’ve got to go to post-OP,” said BJ, feeling a bit guilty – because it wasn’t often he refused Radar anything either – but also feeling like he couldn’t handle the normality, the surreality, of it. He rolled to his feet and tucked Peg’s photo into his pants pocket, aware peripherally that Radar was watching him. Out, he had to get out.

* * *

It was still cold outside and the wind was still blowing. The trees on the hills had already lost their leaves, standing stark and skeletal against the ache of the sky. He was in Korea, and BJ was struck suddenly by how absurd it all was. How had he gotten here? From picket fences to barbed wire and camouflage. What if he never left, just blew away with the leaves, nothing but a memory, a number. A telegram for Peg and a story for Erin.

* * *

Brighton was still staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t moved since BJ’s last visit.

“Brighton. Hale,” BJ said softly, sitting by him, not sure what he was doing because what do you say to someone who has lost the only person keeping them going. “I know you probably don’t want to talk,” he said, “but if you do, I’m here to listen, or I can get our chaplain. Great guy, Father. Used to box.” He couldn’t hold the smile. Brighton didn’t so much as twitch. “I’m so sorry about Kerry.”

After a minute of staring at him staring at nothing, BJ went and dragged the desk chair over. He couldn’t leave the kid alone. He stole the nurses’ patient reports while he was at it, figuring he could get a little work done while he waited for Brighton to come back, but BJ couldn’t focus, his gaze kept wandering and a little while later he pulled out Peg’s photo again.

He missed her. He missed her so much sometimes he couldn’t breathe because of it.

If he’d imagined it once, he’d imagined it a million times, going home. Meeting Peg off the boat and wrapping her up in his arms and himself in her scent. Together. Safe. Home.

He wondered if Hale had anyone like that waiting for him, a girl, parents. He wondered if they would recognize him. He wondered if Peg would recognize him because sometimes BJ didn’t recognize himself.

* * *

“Hey.”

BJ’s head snapped up from the cracks in the floor. Hawkeye was in his bathrobe and boots, hands set in his pockets. He ambled over and gave Brighton’s chart a look.

“I didn’t realize it was Christmas,” said BJ, stretching out the kinks in his back and checking his watch. It was almost seven which didn’t feel right at all. His sense of time was all out of whack, distorted, and whatever time he lost was not restful.

“Santa took a wrong turn in Siberia,” Hawkeye said, coming around and sitting on the edge of Brighton’s bed. “How’s he doing?”

Brighton had finally drifted off into sleep, troubled and restless. “Medically or emotionally?” BJ sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of the gritty feeling.

“How are you doing?” asked Hawkeye.

“Oh, you know. Tired, depressed. Homesick.”

“Situation normal then.”

BJ reached out and took Brighton’s pulse just to feel that he was still alive in there somewhere. In the silence he counted heartbeats, steady and strong but nevertheless lying somehow. “Sometimes . . .” He stopped, unsure of what he wanted to say, much less how. It was stupid really, he knew better, but the quiet over Brighton’s bed was an invitation to ask anyway. “Do you ever look in the mirror and wonder who you used to be?”

He didn’t look up, just kept counting. “Every day,” said Hawkeye quietly, understanding etched in his voice.

“When I told him, it was like he forgot who he was without Kerry,” said BJ, his grip shifting from just his fingertips to his whole hand around Brighton’s wrist. “I’ve never seen anything like it before, couldn’t imagine . . . but at the same time I know exactly how he feels. Like part of me is fading away and all that’ll be left for Peg is a stranger.” Closing his eyes against both the admission and Hawk’s gaze, BJ tried to shake the shakes that were threatening. “God, listen to me.”

“You won’t fade away, Beej,” said Hawkeye. “You might be different but you won’t be a stranger.”

When BJ finally looked up, Hawkeye was looking back at him with certainty. He believed it – believed it enough to carry BJ’s belief for a little while. And maybe that was enough for now. More than enough, essential, necessary, because even though BJ still felt like he was drifting off, Hawkeye was holding the other end of the tether.

“Come on,” Hawk slapped his leg brightly. “Let’s grab dinner before Potter gets there so I can sneak back to bed.”

“Right.” BJ shook his head to pull himself back together, and surprisingly, it wasn’t so hard. He let go of Brighton. He’d ask Father to check in on him again in the morning, and make sure the nurses knew to keep an eye on him.

“I thought about making an exception for Thanksgiving, it being a holiday,” Hawkeye said as they left post-OP, “but then I thought about what a culinary disaster that would be. I’ll probably be safer under the covers.”

“Do you want me to leave a night light on for you?”

“No, but if they end up with cranberry sauce that doesn’t taste like sour grapes. . .”

They went straight to the mess tent since Hawkeye refused to give into the fact that he was up and about enough to merit putting clothes on. BJ slowed down just before they got to the doors.

“Hey, Hawk?” he said. “Thanks.”

Hawkeye smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re welcome,” he said. He reached for the door and held it open for BJ, letting light and chatter out into the dark. When BJ passed through, Hawkeye was close behind him.

* * *

  
End


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